Je veux que ce dont j'ai besoin
by Trayne
Summary: There's no place for god in this terrible dance, where freedom and indulgence are the greatest sins. LavixOC, rated for a sexual situation glossed over by blatant prose.


_Disclaimer: and all related characters are copyright to Katsura Hoshino. I only own this story and one of the characters featured._

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Destined by a fate so cruel

And drugged to delight

Laughing as these lies unfold

I've lost all control

-"Temptation", The Tea Party

It's a dangerous beat they move to; far different from the grace that was once everything about her, far from all the things he should never do, his greatest assets being his mind and eyes and mask.

Though they were now far from anything they ever had been. He was coming together, she was breaking apart, and still they moved.

He had wandered into what he thought was an empty room, only to find it was currently her dance floor. When she caught his eye, it became their battleground.

She didn't give him time to retreat. She came towards him in sweeping steps, held out her hand in challenge.

_I dare you to move._

He accepted, stepping into their arena as she took a few steps back. She gave the slightest bow of her head.

_May the best man win._

He is vaguely reminded of a dance he remembers seeing immigrants perform in the Latino district of Paris, and wonders briefly if she may have seen it too. She comes at him, all sharp, severe spins and he doesn't back down. His arms snap into position as she's right in front of him now, staying en pointe on one foot as the other has been brought up, up, and now he is holding her bent leg up on his waist.

He moves back in quick, long steps, she sliding forward as he is her balance now. But she is not helpless, as this is not a dance. This is a battle of one kind and an imitation of another. He will not lead and she will not follow. Her arms flow and wave towards either side of his head; the way she moves with her Innocence.

_Your head is crushed._

Once he's stopped she's moved away with a twirl, then standing firmly on her own. She starts to circle him with those toe-sweeping steps, but he has none of it and stalks her in turn. They are predators waiting for the chance to strike. When she stops abruptly his arm is already moving to block the smaller one that snaps his way. He's grabbed her wrist and moving her arm up, and there's her leg again, sliding slowly like his hand on her bare thigh to her knee, pressing it into position upon his hip.

He lets her arm fall onto his shoulder since her free hand has trailed up his chest, trailing past his collarbone to his pulse, slipping around the back of his neck where her nails bite into him, her thumb on his throat.

_I've taken your breath._

She does not break eye contact with him this whole time, blue ice glittering dangerously at the solitary green that is too quiet, too intense. She hasn't noticed that only her lips are parted slightly; she is panting softly while his mouth remains in a grim line, rarely so stern in the presence of another.

Hands on his chest and she's pushing him away. He's relented one step, then a half, and she takes a stance. A beat or two of rest, she's in position, and she begins to spin and spin and spin. Trying to pull him in, trying to make him submit to her gravity.

He works his power as he's been doing all along. To adapt. To manipulate. He reclaims that step and a half forward and grabs a wrist, yanks it up and forces one turn, another, and bends her backwards over his arm. Her eyes have widened, appalled that he has used her force against her. She snaps out a leg to stand on as her lets her up, her other leg bending up behind her as she stands on toe, letting him revolve her.

When their torsos are opposite of each other she stalls for her next assault with a mockery of those strange turning half-steps from a dance neither could name. Surprisingly, she turns within his arms and gives him her back. She points a leg to the side and he mimics the movement; and when she arches her back the barest amount, her backside tempting to brush against him, he presses back with a nudge of his hips.

She tries to spin away from him again, but he holds onto an arm. Her final assault, once she comes to a stop facing him, is to suddenly bend back, back, impossibly backwards; one foot pointed on the ground and the other towards the sky. He's taken slightly off-guard, one hand wrapped around the side of her bent waist and the other around the ankle on his shoulder. Her arms are outstretched, hands brushing the floor, and she doesn't realize she has surrendered until she's curled herself back up. Hands press against his chest and eyes open to see that her opponent views her not as prey but as his next meal.

There is no gleam in his eye. He burns.

She's against him in a way that she has teased him with for too long, and he is done toying around. Trying to be casual, she languidly lowers one foot to stand flat on the floor and the other from his shoulder. He knows what would come next; silently, she would take one, two steps back, and then turn to gather her things. _I am finished. You are dismissed._ He will have none of it.

He has not fallen under her gravity. He has not been bound by her ribbon. Today, the hammer falls. Today, he will crush her.

While her steps backwards are calm his steps forward are aggressive. Her protest dies on a gasp as he's already wrapped one large hand around her hip, the other behind golden curls, and his mouth descends to devour her.

Her mouth is sealed by his, though it is a mere mashing of lips, so she screams defiantly in her throat. She is beating and clutching at his arms, forced to press back against his ravishing mouth because he is bending her back, and she wants to stand on her own.

It is not until he is feeding that he realizes how hungry he is. He greedily ravages her mouth, letting her have her leverage as he sinks to the floor, her hands clamped tightly on his biceps. Savagely, he yanks at her hair to expose her throat and rake his teeth there. He lands clumsily and she's already climbing into his lap, kneeling above and trying to be assertive though she only succeeds in giving him access to the petite mounds under the garment that only covers her torso and what he wants most.

He growls and moves to the straps of her attire, wanting to rip it off, but she claws at scarlet hair bound by nothing, yanks his head up and forces her mouth on his. There they stay, locked in a battle of tongues and teeth and moans and snarls. He pulls her down upon him and nearly crushes her against him, wanting more and more of this smaller body and not getting nearly enough.

When she hurriedly tugs at his shirt he relents and lifts his arms, but as soon as his hands are free he reaches around to the strips of cloth that hold this backless garment on her and tears them down. Startled, she scrambles backwards away from him and it just makes it easier for him to rip the clothing off her.

He likes her like this; breathless, clumsily backing away from him, with a glimpse of her core – cherry-pink and weeping for him, her eyes feral and frightened and smoldering all the same. For once she is not all grace and assurance and arrogance and anger; no, she is primal and basic and for the moment what he wants, and is free to have and take again and again and again.

He likes her like this, and is in no rush when he pursues her on hand and knee, moving fluidly and feeling those wild eyes on his chest and shoulders and back. He's moving over her now, she having no choice but to sink back on her hands, subtly lowering herself beneath him. And this isn't quite how he wants her to submit.

His head lowers and he leaves brands on her shoulder, her collarbone, upon tiny breasts and across a rib cage. He moves lower and his hands are bracing her waist, her hips, and it is here that she has submitted. Her back is arched so that only her shoulders and head and rear and touching the floor; her fingers like talons are embedded in scarlet and her knees perched upon his shoulders, and he smiles against her bare lips.

His prey is shaking and panting and pleading and it is time he had his fill.

He braces himself up on one hand while the other goes to undo the tight pants that have been unbearable these past heat-filled moments. There's a snap of a metal button and the hiss of a zipper, and he's concentrating only on the heat in his hand and where he's guiding it; neverminding that she's released his head and is lying prone in awe and disbelief and anticipation, he doesn't want to look at her right now –

He frowns, breathing slow and haggardly. It's tight, tighter than he thought, and after a slow, long burn he's pushed himself all the way in her. He has to close his eye at how her entire being goes taunt, doesn't hear her exhale until he begins to slide out; difficult when she doesn't want to let go.

His hands are braced beside her shoulders; now, he looks down at her, those blue eyes clouded with lust, those talons biting into his shoulders, those_ eyes_ –

They are moving, both against and with each other; he leading from within. Regardless of whether it is a dance or a battle it is never safe when it comes to them, and it is not long before he sinks onto his elbows, his breathing ragged on her neck as she claws up and down and around his back.

They are moving, uninhibited, free, frantic and tantric and –

For a while, they are nothing more than a writhing mass of sweat and limbs and skin – wonderful, glorious skin, a most intimate touch and the taste of salt, and her, her breath, _her voice_ –

Somewhere between panting in time to their beat and whispers of her native tongue she has fallen silent, yet he can _feel_ her wanting to scream, and then… and then… It's almost agonizing how tightly her body coils it on itself, around him, only to unfold in waves and waves.

And it is now, when he feels that little death creeping on him, that his senses come to back to him, threatening to explode all at once and as much as he wants to – he has enough sense to leave this haven of heaven and hell, and two breaths later he has painted a seal on her inner thigh.

Together they ride the aftershocks, and after the last echo of a shiver has faded he remembers who they are and they've done and – and – oh, God, what have they _done_?

He is the Bookman heir in the guise of the title she carries, a disciple of God. He cannot bring himself to look at her, and instead he sees the thin veil of red innocence left on him, wondering which of the two of them has committed a greater sin.


End file.
